Six Ways To Sunday
by Cutie Pie 9335
Summary: The six times a disguised Moriarty is recognized by the great Sherlock Holmes - and the one time he isn't.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Oh my goodness, so useless trying to avoid writing for this fandom. **

**Basically, the summary says it all, this is going to be just a fun seven part fic which I plan on updating sporadically. I'm using this as a little venting tool for this plot bunny so I can try and concentrate on my other fics at the moment. No beta for this (or anything actually) so forgive any mistakes.**

**Please enjoy! (:**

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Chapter 1: _A First Time for Everything_

Jim Moriarty did not like disguises.

Why be someone else when your best character is yourself?

Plus, few outfits are as sexy as a well-cut Armani suit.

Yet, as with most things, Sherlock Holmes caused a bit of a change of heart. Nothing is as thrilling as standing within arm's reach of the consulting detective and him having naught the faintest idea. How easy it would be to slit his throat or count his eyelashes. How _intoxicating_.

That very thought sang in his veins, acting as the motivator to sit through an admittedly dreadful Sunday afternoon in Westminster. At this point, the cough which Jim had been perfecting was not entirely faked.

The master criminal resituated himself against the alley wall, doing his best to look sunken, dull, and miserable – most of London's beggars are. All normals are.

It had easily been a few weeks since the poolside incident and Jim had found himself severely missing Sherlock in between assassinations, terrorist threats, and generally running the criminal circuit.

Once again, Jim would owe the detective's loyal pet for their next meeting.

Doctor John Watson was right on time, his medical practitioner's bag in one hand and fistful of warm clothing in the other. Each and every Sunday, the good doctor went out to patch up the local homeless, undoubtedly his idea of penance and a long break of Sherlock's moods.

Jim coughed innocently.

"Well hello there."

_Showtime_.

John Watson crouched down beside him, jumper still damp from the finicky drizzle, doing his best to look kindly no doubt. Jim smiled back through his impressive beard – all human hair, Sebastian had assured him – and allowed himself to unfurl into character.

"Afternoon," Jim rasped, ducking his head in mock modesty. He pointedly shifted his body inward, tucking his left wrist protectively against his torso in a seemingly unconscious manner. John's eyes tracked the movement like a dog watching a bowl.

"May I see?" John was already reaching out for him.

What a good puppy, Jim smiled wickedly inward, as he presented his trembling arm.

Half the fun and all the importance of masquerading is details. One could flawlessly act out a character, but if they lack authenticity, then the illusion collapses. And Jim Moriarty was all about authenticity.

At least, that was what he'd told Sebastian, holding out his arm similarly to how he was doing for John. To his credit, the sniper had hesitated a solid moment before cleanly snapping his master's wrist. Jim had remained silent then.

Yet here, he feigned a moan of agony as John pushed up his tattered sleeve to reveal his painfully bruised and swollen hand. Angry purple blossoms of broken vessels decorated the pale underside of the joint and stretched into garish yellow splotches.

Gorgeous.

"It's broken," John's brows furrowed as he weighed his options. "Would you like to come back to my flat with me? I've got more supplies there and a pot of hot tea with our names on it."

Jim fidgeted skittishly, before locking gazes with the doctor.

"I would hate to impose." Cue the owlish blink.

"Nonsense," the doctor smiled again, reaching out a hand to help Jim to his feet. "It would be my pleasure."

. . . . .

221B Baker Street was so much better in person.

Moriarty had made it a point to have extensive pictures of the flat, but he'd never had the opportunity to personally tour it. Sherlock was all over the flat – it screamed Sherlock, from the strewn papers to the skull watching morbidly from the mantelpiece. It even smelled like him, faintly chemical yet with the overtones of some masculine soap.

Jim was flawlessly awkward, shuffling his feet at the doorway as John bustled about the kitchen.

"John!"

Electricity arched up Moriarty's spine as an all too familiar shape cut through the kitchen and into the living room. For one blissful second, Jim watched the angular back of Sherlock Holmes as he rifled through a stack of papers on the coffee table. One large hand swept through the unkempt locks as he stood there, breathing, _thinking_, completely oblivious to Jim's presence behind him.

"What?" John reentered the room, carrying a tray with three tea cups and a split-kit under his arm.

"Where are the papers on the Longaburgen case?" God, that voice. Most definitely the new sexy.

"How am I supposed to know?" John bristled, setting his load down on the desk. He shot an apologetic look toward Jim which finally caught the only attention Jim Moriarty ever actively sought.

Sherlock's sea-gray gaze pierced him, dissecting every minute detail and simultaneously attempting to strip Jim bare. It lasted for only one glorious moment before Sherlock turned back to John, back onto his previous query.

The doctor simply ignored him, picking up one saucer of tea and the kit before gesturing for Jim to take a seat on the couch.

"I don't know," John said finally, passing the tea to Jim. "Be polite, say hello to our guest."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nonetheless stretched out a hand to Jim, who in turn offered his good hand.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," Jim drawled hoarsely, testing his grip on the other man's hand. "Name's Henry, pleasure to meet you."

"Cut nails, cleanly – intermittent tremor, strain fissures on the third dorsal tendon implies extensive years of playing piano. Clothes at least a decade old but maintained, recently purchased from second-hand clothing store. Beard growth spans longer than your time spent on the streets, so you had a job which required little or no code of dress prior. Musician, most likely, but passion for art and your passion for the drink don't mix. You've only been a vagrant for little over a year," Sherlock quirked a single brow as he released Jim's hand. "The pleasure is all mine."

John huffed and set to work on Jim's broken wrist, doing his best to be gentle. How boring, but Jim diligently winced each time, playing his part as the wounded beggar. His skin felt flayed under Sherlock's stare; he resisted the urge to giggle manically.

"There you go," John carefully turned his wrist enough to show Jim his work – the split was decent, clearly a well-practiced fix.

"Thank you so much, Doctor Watson," Jim gushed. This had been too easy, dangerously close to boring had it not been for Sherlock's presence. Briefly, Jim wondered if he could smuggle out one of Sherlock's petri-dishes as a little personal souvenir.

"Boys! Could one of you help with these boxes?"

Ah, the cleaning lady. Another one of Sherlock's weak spots. Jim's skin itched with a sense of possessiveness. How lovely it would be to cut her up, boil her, and send her bleached bones to Sherlock all wrapped up in box with a pretty bow on top.

"Coming Mrs. Hudson!" John turned to Sherlock as he got off the couch. "If you could see him out. Be careful with that splint, Henry, and if you need help, don't hesitate to come find me."

With the last sound of John's retreating footsteps, Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were finally alone.

Jim wiped his hands on his ratty trousers and got up to stand, throwing in an extra sway just for effect. Sherlock's blue eyes followed each minute movement as he casually motioned for Jim to lead the way out.

If ever there was a moment to savor, it would be this. Sherlock only a few steps behind, blissfully ignorant to just who he'd let into his flat, and Jim being sent off, like some sort of old friend. Having Sebastian break his wrist was almost worth it.

Once they reached the foyer, Jim stopped at the stoop, Sherlock standing ramrod straight in the doorway.

"I haven't got any money to pay the good doctor," the master criminal mumbled, playing with the frayed hem of his shirt nervously. "Just tell him thanks, I guess. Wish I could do."

There was a moment where Moriarty saw how this would unfold, Sherlock would say something nonchalant and then shut the door of 221B Baker Street, never truly knowing the identity of the man who sat on his sofa, drank his tea, and used his loyal pet. It was a tad disappointing.

But Sherlock was ever a man of surprises.

The consulting detective took a step forward and leaned in closer, inclining his head until he was only inches from Moriarty.

"I will pass on your regards," One slender hand found Jim's broken wrist and encircled it lightly, as Sherlock angled to one side, his lips hot and harsh against Jim's ear. He gave a violent twist, grating the broken bones savagely, "_James._"

Moriarty's breath stuttered as his vision erupted in white pinpricks of agony, his senses overloaded by Sherlock's proximity and the pain echoing through his injured limb. A moan gathered in his throat he nearly failed to stifle.

Then, as quickly as he'd gotten close, the detective stepped back, leaving just cold air behind, and shut the door with a slam of finality.

And James Moriarty, shaken and bearded, smiled.

He would have to do make this a habit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Tell me who you love. That's right, next-day update. I'm really rolling on this story, so hopefully this keeps up. Or maybe hopefully it won't so I can finally go back to working on my two other fics. We shall see. I also totally meant to tell you guys in the previous author's note that Sebastian Moran will play a very small role in this fic and I know he hasn't been cast on the Sherlock TV show, so in my mind, I've kind of been picturing like Michael Fassbender or something. **

**Also, fair warning! This has mild Sherlock/Moriarty in it. I mean, I think of it more as Jim playing a game with Sherlock, who is rather asexual when it comes down to it, but still. You've been warned. (And there might be some crossdressing. whut.)**

**Anywhosies. Thanks go out to everyone who read and followed and favorited. Extra special thanks to everyone who reviewed, your words of encouragement mean a lot to me and my writing process. **

**Please enjoy (responsibly).**

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Chapter 2: _The Second Time is Always Sexier_

Jim Moriarty liked to take his time.

The master criminal also liked to think that he was meticulous and thorough in all of his affairs. Especially when it came to a certain sharp-cheekboned genius.

He took his time in the shower, purposefully running his obscenely expensive shampoo through his hair. With pianist's fingers and all the care in the world, Moriarty shaved his perfectly sculpted calves, removing any and all unsightly hairs from his hard, angled body.

Clean shaven and fresh, the real artistry began.

Sensual hands rolled individual lace-topped sheer stockings over legs that Aphrodite would have wept over. For effect, Jim even fished out a pair of silken cherry red panties and a matching bra from the lingerie bag at the foot of his bed. Sebastian did such a good job of understanding his unique style. A single white garter, with the faintest spattering of blood, decidedly decorated his right thigh.

Delicious.

Delicate fingers sought out his favorite lipstick – _Lucifer's Lady _ – a blood red shade just a dash too dark; a touch too threatening yet looked like sex itself on Jim's well-formed lips. Next came the eyes, the easiest part of the whole ensemble. Really, it's as simple as a thick line across the lashes with some decent shadowing at the crease and highlighting at the brow. And then mascara. Child's play.

Why Irene ever complained about make-up, Moriarty would certainly never know. _Speaking of Irene_.

Jim picked up the Jimmy Choo black stiletto-pumps which The Woman had so deigned to send him as a 'thank you' gift of sorts. It really had been sweet – the shoes were sitting on his large bed suddenly one evening with a little note on top, simply reading:

_Couldn't stop thinking about how good you'd look with these on and only these on. Let's have dessert. _

_Love, Miss Adler_

Honestly, what was he going to do with her? Skin her and make shoes? Well now.

Of course the heels fit perfectly, and matched his official favorite outfit ever. A slinky black Marc Jacobs dress which clung in all the right places and whose neckline dipped dangerously low to reveal just a peek of that red lace bra and artificial cleavage. Meow.

Next came the wig, which would speak volumes about his character. Dare Jim Moriarty try the auburn A-line, or opt instead for the wildly sexy blonde waves? In the end, he chose yet another personal favorite – long and loose curls in a sultry chocolate tone.

Sherlock Holmes didn't stand a chance.

"Sebastian," Jim trilled, testing out his female-persona voice. "Darling, come zip me up."

The sniper came obediently, all hunched shoulders and stomping combat boots. If he was surprised to see his employer dressed up as the fairer sex, Sebastian Moran wisely kept his mouth shut. Simply put, one cannot ever predict the actions of James Moriarty.

"How do I look?" the genius asked, lasciviously eyeing himself in the bathroom's full-length mirror.

"Heavenly," Sebastian deadpanned, meeting the reflected-Jim's gaze from over the shorter man's shoulder.

Jim grinned delightedly in spite of himself, "Really? What a shame. I was going for 'naughty'."

Seb arched an eyebrow, "You're sin on legs."

Sherlock Holmes most certainly did not stand a chance.

. . . . .

God must love Jim.

Truly, because that night would find Sherlock Holmes and John Watson chasing a lead on a recent string of all-male homicides in a veritably unorthodox manner.

Speed Dating.

The whole meeting was precisely planned; Jim had carefully tracked the detective's movement for a few days anticipating the moment Sherlock might finally deduce who the real killer was. Which would inevitably lead him to the speed dating ring at a fairly upscale pub in London.

And thusly sitting only a few chairs down from the dragged-up Moriarty.

However, John Watson was also a few chairs away from Sherlock meaning that by that time in the dating circuit, John was not one chair away. Logically, the two had separated to 'divide and conquer' as it would seem and as luck would have. Once again, Jim found himself in the unpleasant position of handling the dog before addressing its master.

The bell rang, signaling the end of another three minutes.

Ethan, the dull computer programmer who had sat and discussed little more than his passion for hardware, got up to leave, casting one last despairing glance at Jim's chest.

"I'm Doctor John Watson," the army doctor took his seat, looking downright boyishly interested, "and you must be stunningly beautiful."

Jim allowed himself a cute tittering giggle before responding, "Charmed. I'm actually Vanessa, pleased to meet you."

The two chatted idly about where they grew up (Vanessa came from Ireland, hence the slight lilt in her speech) and about what they were doing with their lives now (Vanessa was a public relations liaison making a decent salary). Jim listened attentively to John vaguely describe his military career and in turn, just as vaguely described her fondness for gardening. It was all very quaint and scripted, politely distant.

In other words, boring.

Jim would rather string John up by his neck and flog him mercilessly than hear anymore trite blithering.

The bell sounded a few more times, each interval with each desperate man was becoming increasingly unbearable in the most delectable way_. Anticipation_. Oh, to wait for Sherlock Holmes with baited breath and false breasts.

Sherlock glanced over at the woman he'd just previously been talking to and gave her his false little grin, as if apologetic for the small time they had together. He'd been methodically casting the same look to each woman from the moment this whole sordid affair began, likely trying to scrutinize every last detail to commit for memory or looking for some sort of tell. Better yet, if Jim had to guess, he was attempting to attract the attention of a certain murderess.

"Hello," Sherlock dragged his gaze away, "The name's Sha–

The detective stopped, choking on his words. Those sea blue eyes widened incredulously as if trying to take in all the information sitting before him yet coming to the plain and starling conclusion: _Jim Moriarty was in drag._

"Shane?" Jim asked innocently, batting his lashes at Sherlock. "What a nice name, and you can call me Maria."

Sherlock's mouth hung slightly agape.

Jim winked and put one perfectly manicured finger under Sherlock's jaw, gently closing his mouth for him. "Do you come here often?"

To his credit, Sherlock recovered quickly, "No, but I can't imagine that you do either. Special occasion tonight or is this all for me?"

"Well, it's been awhile since we last saw each other. I wanted to check up on you, see how you're doing," the criminal twirled a strand of hair around his index finger. "And I may have gotten a little dressed up, put on my Sunday best. You're not the only one who can appreciate it, however."

Jim pointedly glanced over at John, and Sherlock, who had followed his stare, twitched minutely. Amusement flickered in those eyes, lurking just behind suspicion and unadulterated loathing.

This was just too good.

"Anyway," Jim drawled in his falsetto, "I brought you a present."

Casually, the mastermind moved his right leg out from under the table, his dress riding up just enough to show the black lace of the tights peeking out from underneath. Sherlock stared at the appendage for a moment as if not understanding but Moriarty simply slid forward, arching his back obscenely to push his leg closer to the detective. After all, Sherlock wasn't such a dull man.

Those violinist fingers reached forward, ghosting over the line of Jim's thigh until dipping flawlessly under the hem of the dress. They ascended dangerously until finally hitting their mark.

Jim watched Sherlock's face, a placid mask of indifference as he retrieved the stained garter. A clue, obviously, dealing with the case the dynamic duo was currently unraveling.

"That's all you'll be getting. I mean, what kind of girl do you take me for?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to Jim's, locking on him with a sort of intensity that made his stomach clench in the most disgustingly wonderful way.

The bell rang.

And the consulting detective didn't move.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock's voice dropped low, into that grating baritone Jim Moriarty would so love to hear begging for mercy or begging for more. Such a shame, if only the Holmes' weren't such prideful creatures.

"Excuse me," the next man in line looked politely confused as he cut in, "I think you're supposed to have moved over a chair."

"I'm doing you a favor," Sherlock glared daggers at the man. "Now. Move on."

"I think I'd like to decide that for myself," the man carried on, shooting a shy glance at Jim from behind his glasses. There was a tense moment as the two men stared each other down.

"Very well," the consulting detective got up, plopped down in the next seat and then turned himself until almost fully facing Jim once more. "What's your game? A little show and tell but for what purpose?"

The blonde woman sitting across from Sherlock looked positively affronted. But that's what happens when a sociopath tries being social.

"You're being awfully rude, _Shane_," Jim purred. "You shouldn't ignore your date – she might be _the one_ – and you know I've always been fond of having an audience."

"Then you'll have to forgive me, _Maria_, this just seems so unlike you," Sherlock's voice took on something of a pout, playing his part equally as he leaned his forearm across Jim's side of the table.

"Do you know each other?" the glasses-toting man inquired meekly.

"We are acquainted." Sherlock didn't break his gaze from Jim.

The consulting criminal giggled and walked his fingers over to Sherlock's arm, inch by inch, "He's an old flame of mine."

"Old?" Sherlock's brow arched.

Jim smiled winningly, "Didn't know you wanted to rekindle our relationship, darling."

"I wasn't aware that it had been snuffed."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

The bell rang again.

Jim made to stand, not bothering to pull down where the skirt of the dress had ridden up, and pretended not to see the various pairs of eyes watching him. Especially not the blue gaze that raked over his frame. Certainly not.

Taking one quick step around the table, Sherlock blocked Jim's immediate escape route. The master criminal took his own step closer, standing almost flush against the impressively tall man, and glanced up through his lashes coquettishly. With a deft hand, Moriarty slipped the white garter into Sherlock's front coat pocket.

"Don't be a stranger," Jim whispered, leaning up and kissing Sherlock on the cheek before he could react. A perfect red kiss remained where Jim Moriarty's lips had been.

Without another word, Jim slipped past a stunned Sherlock Holmes and disappeared out into the murky London night.

Oh yes, Jim Moriarty was officially an addict.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter is kind of short than the other ones, but I got this idea in my head for a chapter and decided to run with it, so we'll see how this goes. I was kind of not surprised by the lack of comments on the previous chapter - it was a little strange, I admit. **

**Anywhosies. Onto the next chapter! Thanks everyone who had read, followed and favorited. Extra thanks to all my lovely reviewers, you make the earth go 'round! But seriously, your wonderful comments really have helped this story along and I thank you for taking the time to tell me what you thought.**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter 3: _Two's Company - Three's a Crowd_

Jim Moriarty was not a morning person.

Unsurprisingly, life as a criminal mastermind didn't typically require terribly early waking hours. Thusly leading to an unhealthy amount of sleeping in, or at least as Sebastian, the quite literal early bird, would inform him on occasion. To which Jim would roll over in his silk sheets and tell the sniper what a lovely floor matt he would make.

Morning was simply dreadful. The sun was just barely up, everyone and their mums were either tired or hung-over, and smothered in intricacies detailing their previous night or what they so planned to do with the rest of their day. How mind numbingly boring.

Jim hunched over his psychology text book, scanning a page on human social disorders for the third time – each word was already memorized of course, photographic memories rather ruined the fun of attempting to retain any knowledge.

"Sir, your order," an entirely too cheery barista set down one cup of coffee, black with two sugars, and a tea, served with a splash of cream and a half cube

Jim smiled shyly in return, brushing his blonde bangs from his eyes, and nodded mutely before going back to his 'studies'. Had he currently been himself, he might've just blown the bloody café to hell. Certainly a project to look into, Jim mentally noted.

It would undoubtedly send a statement.

A statement meant only for the consulting detective sitting a street away, similarly at his own table on the patio of a small coffee shop, flipping idly through a case file. Blissfully unaware of the man only a couple hundred feet away watching him over his own morning cup, sans food.

Really, Jim worried about his detective.

"A university student? Being a bit optimistic, aren't we?"

Ah, but one could never get a moment's rest these days.

"Mycroft Holmes," Jim pushed his unnecessary glasses back up his nose as he took in the other, duller, Holmes brother.

As always, the Ice Man appeared impeccable – what with his cleanly pressed Armani suit and insufferably elegant Bruno Magli dress shoes. His ever-present umbrella served only to annoy Moriarty further, almost more so than the arrogant pinch Mycroft's face seemed eternally stuck in.

I was so dangerously close to enjoying myself," Jim gestured to the seat facing him, "I'm lucky you showed up when you did."

Mycroft took a full moment to glare down his nose at the wrought iron chair before finally taking a seat, looking wholly out of place in fully regalia at a breakfast joint on a foggy Tuesday morning. Of course, casually chatting with the British Intelligence's most loved criminal mastermind, who was in turn dressed in a ratty university sweatshirt and frankly frighteningly blonde wig, remained equally odd.

"Should I even bother inquiring what you're doing here?" the elder Holmes glanced down at the strategically placed tea.

"How cold, no pleasantries before business. I even ordered you a little something – I know how you like it," Jim grinned wickedly back at Mycroft as he pushed the still-steaming tea a few inches closer. He'd have to thank Irene for borrowing one of her favorite lines – perhaps a few pictures of Sherlock in the shower would do nicely. That, or the personal mobile number of that striking daughter of a famous petrol tycoon.

"You've become awfully careless recently," Mycroft continued as if uninterrupted. "A few personal visits with my younger brother, leaving your calling card at fresh crime scenes, handing out evidence to those same crimes. It's almost like you want to get caught."

Jim hummed and then shrugged, glancing pointedly over at the younger Holmes, still obliviously reading across the street at his own table.

"Maybe," Jim grinned crookedly, "but I suppose I don't have to worry much about you. If only you were as interesting as your brother, then perhaps I could abate some of your jealousy. But not all things run in the family, I suppose."

Mycroft looked absolutely offended, if going by the taught line forming on his brow and on the grim shape his lips had taken. He replied in a low, icy voice, "I am not _jealous_. You are a master criminal with an awful penchant for being… 'naughty', chasing doggedly after my much younger brother. You and I shall never see eye to eye."

"Certainly," Moriarty nodded in mock understanding, "especially if I cut out your eyes, then we really never would and that would be just too much of a shame. But on the other hand, I'm sure they'd make a lovely gift to Sherlock – your eyes in a glass jar with a little note: _You're the apple of my eye_."

The blood drained from Mycroft's face, but the man managed to look undeterred, sipping silently at his tea. It was almost endearing how the elder Holmes was attempting to shield his brother, guard his innocence so to speak – but it was pointless. Mycroft had already served up Sherlock on a silver platter to Jim, and now that he'd had a taste, well. Jim couldn't just let that go with eating the whole dish.

Surely, of all people, Mycroft could understand the sentiment.

"Truly, this has been lovely but I can only allow someone to ruin my morning to such an extent," Moriarty made a sweeping motion with one hand.

For a moment, Mycroft looked caught between stubbornly staying where he was and leaving all together, but then the decision was taken, rather abruptly, out of their hands by a certain barista.

"Gentlemen," she smiled again, dimples popping on her round cheeks.

She set down one plate of white cake before Mycroft, a delicate little desert dressed finely in pure white crème frosting with pale blue candied rose accents. And before Jim, she placed a tumbler of scotch, just about two fingers worth in the glass and at the rim, a small lipstick mark where someone had taken a sip.

Both men stared curiously at each other before simultaneously glancing back over to the great and confounding Sherlock Holmes – who was watching them from over his book with a look of pure satisfaction. He waved, wiggling in his fingers in a mockingly friendly gesture.

Jim waved back, unable to contain the grin which split his face.

Meanwhile, Mycroft simply looked humiliated, alternating between glaring at the piece of cake and his younger brother.

Third time was certainly the charm.

And Sherlock Holmes was never one to disappoint.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Well. It has certainly been too long! Sorry for the delay, I took a very brief hiatus but now I'm back. **

**AND THIS IS IMPORTANT! So read this- if anyone has a prompt for this story specifically, PM me or just leave a review and maybe it'll be the next chapter. I had six already planned out, but then I kind of thought, what the hell, I'll see what your guys' input is and figure it out.**

**Thanks to all my lovely reader, favoriters, and followers. Extra special thanks to those who leave reviews - they really encourage me to push on and update. Thanks everybody and please enjoy!**

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Chapter 4: _Four Eyes, Two Hearts_

Jim Moriarty was not overly fond of the police.

To be entirely honest, Jim found them easily to be the single most boring lot of human beings to have ever dragged their knuckles across the earth. In all that they did, the London police floundered like a man thrown in the ocean with cinderblocks tied to his legs.

They were _drowning_.

Which would have been all well and good, a deliciously entertaining spectacle to behold, were it not for the single man keeping them afloat. Sherlock Holmes managed to keep the police department's head just above the surface, frustratingly enough.

Yet perhaps now, he was indebted to his detective.

Jim adjusted the collar of his trench coat and pushed his aviators higher up on the bridge of nose. Even in the reflection of a squad car window, Jim Moriarty looked sharp. His hair finely quaffed, his stubble finely overgrown, even his countenance finely soured. A finely refined disguise.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Greg jumped in the reflection behind him, as if shaken from some long-suffering reverie. Jim snorted to himself as he turned around.

"You must be Detective Richardson," Lestrade gruffly stuck out his right hand. "Heard they'd be sending someone."

Jim nodded but ignored the proffered handshake, instead produced a cigarette from one of his many coat pockets and pretended to grope around for a light. Lestrade made him fumble for only a moment more before handing over his plain metal lighter without a word.

"Thanks," Moriarty murmured around the fag. He took a long drag, noticing the way the DI's eyes followed the movement hungrily – former nicotine addict, clean for about eight months, likely using the patch system. Too easy. "You got the bodies 'round? I'd like a look at 'em before your golden-boy tampers with evidence."

"_Sherlock,_" Greg stressed, tearing his gaze away from the Jim's occupied mouth, "is already on the scene. The man's a certifiable genius – I trust his judgment."

Jim nodded again, pinching his face to look even more soured to hide his secret excitement, as he replied rather brusquely with his faked Glasgow lilt, "And I trust he won't be a problem."

Obviously done with their back and forth, Lestrade led Jim past the gaggle of squad cars, through an alleyway between warehouses and down closer to the waterfront. Lying prone on the pebbled shore in the faint morning light, two bodies were strewn – a man and a woman, it appeared.

And standing, perfectly straight with hands buried in his pockets, Sherlock Holmes looked on the scene with indifference, with his live-in pet only a few feet away.

"Morning, gentlemen," Lestrade called out as he strode over, "We've got ourselves a new man on point with us today. Detective Richardson from one of our northern divisions. Supposedly, these two match a description on a couple of missing persons from their department."

The DI stopped just at the edge of the scene, marked out by little red flags stuck in the gravely beach, and murmured quietly, as if for Jim not to hear, "Mind your manners and play nice."

Sherlock barely glanced over, all of a cursory peripheral movement, before the beginnings of a smile showed on his face, "Of course, Lestrade. You needn't worry, Detective – Richardson, you said? – and I have worked closely together before."

Greg had the decency to at least look confused, like he might just ask what in god's name that even meant because Sherlock _certainly_ did not sound like he knew this Richardson character. But, ever slow witted and mundane, Greg Lestrade nodded numbly before walking stiff-legged towards the other side of Dr. Watson.

Jim fancied the idea of someday cracking open his skull to see if there was even a shred of intelligence lurking about. He sincerely doubted it.

"There's no trauma marks, no puncture wounds," John Watson frowned, kneeling beside the deceased woman. "The lack of water in the lungs rules out drowning. There isn't any sign of poisoning or any sort of health complications."

It was painfully obvious.

But then that was why, Jim assumed, Sherlock kept the doctor around. It was so very entertaining to see the normal little man struggle to put all the pieces together, nauseatingly adorable, really.

John Watson could serve only to bask in the fire that was Sherlock Holmes' brilliance – but Jim Moriarty? He was the only man that could stoke that fire in a roaring blaze, igniting the full genius which laid untapped for such a tragically long stretch.

"So then what _are _we dealing with?" Lestrade asked impatiently. John stood up, brushing off his trousers, and turned an expectant gaze upon his flat mate.

In turn, Sherlock rolled his eyes as he set to work.

Jim liked to imagine the detective making a broad flourishing gesture, like some ring master – a sociopathic ringmaster, none the less. _Prepare to be amazed_.

"Clothes fully preserved, no tears or signs of struggle. They were treated with dignity upon death – executed, cleanly and with mercy. The man's coat, heavy in this time of year but necessary for the weather from where so ever he originates," the detective paused thoughtfully, stooping down over the man.

"And where might that be?" Jim drawled nonchalantly and took a deep, purposeful inhale on his cigarette. At this, Sherlock turned his full attention upon the disguised criminal with a sort of simpering glare.

"Scotland."

"You're sure?" John cut in.

"Back of left hand, they both have a matching stamp," Sherlock delicately lifted the man's arm up by his sleeve, indeed showing a faint sallow stain on the backside of his hand. "Blackbriar, it's a Scottish nightclub in Glasgow. Both were there likely the night before, based the decay of our bodies. They were executed and brought here, sans identification, and dumped far away in the hopes no one would know where they'd come from originally."

Moriarty could hardly contain the smile threatening to split his face. Watching Sherlock Holmes work in person was a vast improvement over simply sitting at the sidelines away from the explicit reality. Nothing was greater than seeing the wheels turning behind those ever-arrogant blue eyes.

"And," the consulting detective continued, "if either of you two paid any mind to the news outside of England, you might know this man and woman were wanted for murder and larceny."

Jim couldn't stop himself from taking a few steps closer as he murmured, "A killer who kills killers. What might one deduce from that?"

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to find Moriarty's.

"The same thing we might from a man who carries a knife in lieu of a gun," he whispered back. "Just as quick, just as efficient, yet guaranteed to be much more painful, much more _intimate_."

Moriarty felt his hand twitch toward his fake gun holster, indeed carrying a serrated blade rather than some dull gun. Frankly, firearms were hardly any fun, no mystique, no thrill. But a sharp edge? Much sexier.

And Sherlock always had such keen observation skills. Also, much sexier.

"So he fancies himself an angel?" Jim leaned in closer, letting his aviators slide coquettishly down the bridge of his nose. If his grin was remotely crooked, the only one who noticed was Sherlock.

The detective blinked and then smirked minutely, "Never – rather, a fallen angel if he were ever to admit to being so righteous."

"Still doesn't explain how they died," Lestrade crossed his arms.

The proverbial spell broke – Sherlock moved around to the female victim, back on track once more. He gave an exasperated sigh, loud and petulant.

"But it does, Detective Inspector, you just can't see it properly."

Watson nearly groaned, "Just tell us, for god's sake. We all do have lives to carry on with."

Sherlock clapped his hands together for effect, and faced his captive audience, those twin blue depths alight with such dazzling brilliance. The headache of orchestrating a day off was entirely worth it, Jim believed.

"They were poisoned with a common plant found all over the UK," Sherlock quirked a single brow, "Foxglove, also known as digitalis, is extremely dangerous when given a highly concentrated dosage. In the southern regions of Scotland, it is referred to as the 'bloody fingers', a wonderful fit for our victims. Indeed, the two have blood on their hands and our killer executed the two for it."

Lestrade looked unremarkably unconvinced while John teetered on the edge of awe and disbelief.

"And how do you know it was foxglove?" the DI frowned, making the rest of his face furrow in strenuous resolve.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Jim beat him to the punch.

"Digitalis is nearly untraceable, an immense boon for would-be killers and suicides." Moriarty dared a peek over at the detective, who was watching him with a burning intensity that set a flame down in the pit of Jim's stomach. "However, to synthesize a dosage of that potency would require some remedial knowledge of plants."

Nonchalantly, Jim opened his trench coat and pulled from the interior compartment a plain manila folder. He held it delicately in his leather-gloved grasp, offering it to whomever might be quick enough, or brave enough, to take it.

Lestrade grabbed the file first, flipping it open to scan the contents, and read aloud, "James Lebowitz, age thirty-seven – occupation: plant nursery manager."

The silence that followed was deafening.

For the first time, it seemed, John Watson focused on the man before him, closely inspecting Moriarty from head to toe until finally settling upon his face.

"Where did you say you were from again?" the doctor's mouth pulled into a grim line.

"He didn't," Sherlock took a long stride closer and muttered softly, "Leave now and I won't give chase."

Moriarty chuckled darkly in return, dropping his northern lilt.

"Hardly an incentive."

Their silent battle of glares lasted only a heartbeat longer.

Jim shrugged, starting to turn away with a rueful smile, "Ah, but I have other business to attend to. Don't be a stranger, Sherlock – that would just _kill _me."

In the edges of his peripherals, the consulting detective minutely relaxed, some of tension leaving his lean frame.

"I almost forgot!" Moriarty announced loudly, spinning on his heel. Perfectly predictable, Sherlock's entire body seized up, coiling inward on itself as if to strike. How lovely to know he could still have such a violent effect on the man – seems the magic wasn't lost, no matter how much the detective might pretend otherwise.

Jim moved back into Sherlock's personal space, using one delicate finger to open the right side of Sherlock's infamous black coat. With surgical precision, and never once breaking eye contact, James Moriarty placed a single cigarette in Sherlock's breast pocket, directly over his heart.

"This should tide you over until next time."

The detective said nothing and the criminal had nothing to left to say.

As the criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty walked back the way he came over the pebbled shore, he forced himself to not turn around. Not to look back to savor the look on his detective's alabaster face. Not to see if his hand lingered at all over his heart or the present residing atop it.

Temptation, surely, is a cruel mistress.


End file.
